


God by the Water

by JarsOfIt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Chuck Shurley is Not God, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28582842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JarsOfIt/pseuds/JarsOfIt
Summary: It is a Thursday when Dean and Cas finally speak to God.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 11





	God by the Water

**Author's Note:**

> please ignore the fact that i'm here in 2021 ALSO i wrote this between 10pm and 12am last night in a frantic rush. also i have no religious affiliation and i’m trying to grapple with what god could be so. ty for indulging me <3

The morning is blue as the underbelly of a glacier, clear and shining, and Dean and Cas decide to go to a lake. There is no convincing required; Dean simply looks up from his thrift store comic, the one with two circular coffee stains on the front, and says, “Hey Cas, how do you feel about going up to that lake?” and Cas drizzles honey over his granola with a content smile. “We could pack sandwiches. If you wanted,” Dean adds, still not quite certain after all these years, but getting better each day, and Cas replies, “I would like that.”

This is how Dean and Cas end up at the lake. It is in the national park, the entrance of which is a short drive from their home, the wooden cabin with the shitty electricity and the untameable passionfruit vine slowly eating away at the veranda. It’s not a far walk, mostly flat because Dean has only become more himself, in these quiet years, and he still hates hiking. The path is narrow so Dean walks ahead and Cas distracts himself with the bridge of Dean’s shoulders, the shining back of his neck smattered with freckles, the handsome tilt of his head as he looks up into the interlocking tops of the trees, ancient and green as new birth. Dean stops at one point and says, “Hey Cas, check out that guy,” laughter threading golden through his voice, and Cas brings his gaze across Dean’s shoulders, down Dean’s outstretched arm, and there is a bird, small and finch-like, with a twig at least twice the size of its body in its little beak. “Good luck, little man,” Dean says, shaking his head fondly, and Cas echoes, “Good luck." The bird sits on its branch, contemplating its next move while they walk on.

They reach the lake in just under thirty minutes, and break away from the path, which leads around it, away from the edge. There are some makeshift stairs, if you could call them that, really just a procession of taller and taller still rocks, which the two of them manage their way up, Dean grumbling about backs and knees and hips. The tallest rock has a flat top and juts out a little over the water, and this is where they’ve sat the last two times they’ve been here, and this is where they sit now. Dean puts their bag down with an exaggerated sigh and flops beside it.

“I could have carried it, you know,” Cas tells him, mild, amused. Dean looks offended, the twist of his face funny enough to make Cas grin and duck his head while he sits, and when he looks back up Dean is smiling, the smile that first appeared a month after they moved into their cabin and they were sitting at the dinner table and Cas had said, “I think I’ll start a vegetable garden.” It wrinkles the skin at the outer corners of his eyes. He has never, not once, allowed Cas to carry the bag.

Dean gets the sandwiches out and they eat, despite only having been away from the house for an hour, and that’s a generous guess. Dean’s is ham, Cas’s is chicken, but they trade halves as usual and end up sharing. Before starting on his chicken half, Dean says, “What book did you start last night?” and Cas indulges him in a review that’s a little more scathing than it needs to be, only because he likes Dean’s bark of delighted, surprised laughter whenever Cas says something remotely nasty, and he likes even more that Dean nods along with him and makes little comments that show that, despite having never read this obscure book, and probably having no will to read it anyway, he agrees with Cas on instinct alone. They aren't far enough into the forest to be beyond cell service, so Dean takes a photo of Cas to send to Jack, leaning far back to get it all in the frame, the ice-blue of the water, the quilted green of the forest around them, the side of Cas's face as he turns from the camera.

_Cool!!!!_ is the immediate response, with a string of emojis Dean can't begin to comprehend, and then, _Can we go when I come visit???_

_Aren't you meant to be in class right_ now Dean texts back, brow furrowed to ward off the smile threatening his mouth, and Cas leans over to read the messages. Dean can feel his grin pressed into the white bone of his shoulder, the amused huff of air into his shirt. He turns to peer down at Cas, and says, disapprovingly, "You raised a rebel, Cas. Kid's on his phone during a seminar."

Cas sits back up and tilts his chin, all I'm-right-and-I-know-it, but when he says, "Don't blame me, you helped," Dean has to look away, back over the water, warm and overwhelmed, his fingers only a little clumsy when he follows up with, _Yeah we can go when you come stay. Now phone away and eyes on the prof, kid._

Oh, wonderful, you’re here, the Voice of God says once the phone is back in Dean's pocket, although of course at that point Dean and Cas don’t know it is the Voice of God, and Dean’s hand immediately goes to the gun he still has, because not every habit can be killed or put to sleep. Don’t do that, the Voice adds, not quite alarmed but not sounding as calm as it did earlier, either, You can’t shoot me but I’d like it if you didn’t have a gun out anyway, I’m not going to hurt you.

“What are you?” Dean says, voice rough, gun still out, his body tilting towards Cas, Cas tilting towards him. The weather is still clear and warm, with a cool breeze tickling the surface of the lake, the waves making soft sounds against the rock, on the banks. I’m afraid you won’t like the answer, the Voice of God says, and It sounds like It means that literally, a note of apprehensiveness, of not-quite-fear in Its words.

Cas reaches across to lay his hand on the fist Dean has around his gun, turning from where he was scanning the woods around them to find Dean’s gaze. Their eyes meet; Cas presses his palm more insistently; Dean’s hand lowers and the gun clicks against the rock when he lays it down.

Thank you, Castiel, the Voice beams, and when Cas hears that he knows, and his eyes widen, and Dean says, “Cas? Cas, what’s wrong?” and Cas says, “Nothing, Dean, everything’s okay,” but he says it in a vague, dazed way that clearly only makes Dean more worried, because now he’s grabbing Cas’s upper arm and saying, in that fearful, sarcastic way of his, “Oh, because that was a totally normal way to say those words,” and the Voice spills like water over the falls, Dean, it’s alright, Castiel has merely recognised me, I’m sad that we didn’t get to meet earlier, but I’m overjoyed to have found you here at last.

“Lord,” Cas whispers, and Dean’s eyes bug out of his head. “Fucking Chuck? You’re some disembodied Voice now?” Dean picks up his gun, feels the kick of adrenalin like a jet stream through his fingertips. “How come shit doesn’t stay dead, Jesus Christ —”

“Not Chuck,” Cas says insistently, casting his gaze out over the lake, the shiver of the water in the wind, the stop-start fizz of the dragonflies hovering at its shallows. “Not Chuck. The Lord.”

The Voice of God — or just God, really — makes a sound like wind chimes, which Dean somehow, in ways unknown to him, translates as kind laughter. Yes, God says, not Chuck, although he tried his best — or worst, I suppose, he was cruel, wasn’t he, upsettingly so.

Dean lowers his gun again, but his eyes are still distrustful and narrow, scanning the base of the rocks, the other side of the lake, reaching into the dark of the woods where he can’t see, anyway. “God, but not Chuck,” he repeats slowly, trying to gather his mind together enough to discern the real truth, because that can’t be right, but then Cas says, “Lord,” again, and then his eyes widen further and he says, “I don’t — is that — can I call you ‘Lord’?” He looks panicked and he grabs for Dean’s hand and squeezes. Dean squeezes back absently but he’s still scanning the banks, the water, the air, filing through his brain to find a monster or spirit or something that matches _huge ambiguous disembodied voice? Talking lake???? The woods know my name???_?

Wind chimes again, and God says Castiel, you can call me whatever you like, and the only way you could possibly upset me is if you called me a word that indicated distrust, or anger, or heartbreak. Dean gives up on his search through the woods and looks down at Cas’s hand in his, and thinks _if this really is God, like_ the _God, it’s pretty cool that Cas still wants to hold my hand_ , and allows himself that win.

Cas looks calmer now, as if despite not quite believing what is happening, he knows deep in his bones and his once-Graceful-now-human soul that this is not imagined, and that everything is real, including the fact that Dean, in the presence of God, looks both distrustful of their surroundings and quietly satisfied with himself, for some reason. Cas looks back out over the lake and says, voice steadier now, “Lord works. For me, it has always been a term I use fondly, because it makes me think of you.”

How delightful, God says, and Dean has only ever heard that phrase used sarcastically, but God’s Voice is earnest and sounds completely full of delight, without a breath of a lie, and then God continues, without preamble, Delightful, truly, Castiel, you are an absolute treasure.

Cas sucks in a sharp breath; lets it out in a strangled huff. His eyes fill and then tears tilt over the edge of his lashes and kiss his cheeks. Dean can feel Cas’s hand trembling in his and he squeezes again, and all his training is screaming don’t trust, don’t trust, but when he looks over at Cas and the tears shining on his face and the amazed, smiling curve of his mouth, he feels himself relax. Whatever is happening is fragile as the silver fingerprints of the sun on the water, and Dean would rather die than disturb it.

“Um,” Cas says, low voice wavering, and then he laughs a little, that quiet, uncertain chuckle. “Thank you. Thank you, Lord.”

My pleasure, I only wish to help illuminate the truth, and I should be thanking you, really, for all the work you’ve done protecting this world and this time, both of you, and Sam and the rest of your brave family, they unfortunately aren’t here but you will pass on my gratitude, won’t you, God says, the words dancing through the air, waltzing across the tops of their heads, passing like the affectionate sweep of a parent’s hand over their shoulders. It is difficult to speak at all, I’m extraordinarily lucky to be in the right place and time with the pair of you.

“Difficult?” Dean asks, curious despite himself, unable to stay quiet, cringing only a little at the accusatory note in his voice. “What do you mean, difficult?”

Dean, God says, so affectionately that it makes Dean’s head spin and makes him want to scream at God to fuck all the way off and makes him want to run down the narrow path back to the car back to the cabin back to his bed. I thought you might be a little frustrated with Me, which is perfectly understandable considering the multitude of misguided statements people have made about Myself and My powers, not that I can fault them either because what do they have to go off, anyway, not much.

There’s a pause, and a bird trills on the other side of the lake, distant, melodious. “Right,” Dean says.

Well, I am not one to rule in the way that Kings and Emperors and Presidents do, in fact in terms of human ideals of power I might be a bit of a let down, Fundamentally what you need to know is that Chuck was not like me, he was very powerful, but he was killable and he had selfish desires and he acted in a way that I, to be quite honest with you, disapproved of on every level, not that I could do much about it.

And Dean had, as soon as registering that perhaps this was God, a God-not-Chuck God, sworn to himself that he wasn’t going to do this, not this time around, but the sorrow and the jealousy and the child wailing in the motel rooms inside him that it’s not fair, it never was rise now in his throat like boiling water, scalding it pink and spilling from between his lips. “Why couldn’t you do anything about it,” he says, voice flat so it’s not a plaintive question, jaw clenched, eyes tight and hot. “You’re God, aren’t you. Where the fuck were you.”

“Dean,” Cas admonishes, looking hurt, face still wet, and Dean feels a lick of shame up his spine until God says, It’s quite alright, Castiel, he has had to deal with an overwhelming amount of sorrow and hurt and difficulty, I think it’s fair for him to ask these questions, it’s understandable.

“Damn right it’s understandable,” Dean snaps, trying and failing to ignore the way Cas still flinches. He softens his tone the tiniest amount, only for Cas, not for the Voice coming out of the lake, or the sky, or that bird across the lake who is still singing. “The end of the world, over and over again. We died. We came back. We lost people. You were in a fucking lake?”

I hope this makes you feel a little better, but if it doesn’t, feel free to tell me so, God says and the clouds move across the sky, drifting in from the edge of the continent. But I wasn’t in the lake, and I’m not in the lake right now, people got it right when they said I am everywhere, because I am, It is just that in this moment, this perfect place and time, I have managed to swim to the surface of My Dreams and opened My Mouth and been able to, finally, speak to you, I am sure you can imagine that as I encompass nearly all of time and space, it is incredibly difficult to pick the right moment, I am not searching for praise, I am just attempting to explain Myself to you, Dean, because I feel like perhaps I owe it to you most of all.

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it again. Cas closes his eyes and tilts his face up, smiling still, like someone basking in sun after days of winter rain. Dean thinks hard, and then surprises himself when he says, “I think, actually, you owe it to Sam more than me.” God doesn’t reply immediately, and Dean is struck by a sudden bout of nervousness, so he elaborates: “I mean, Cas, he already knew, and I didn’t care either way but Sam… he never knew for sure, but he believed. So, it’s him. You owe it to him.”

A warmth alights on Dean’s side, like he’s sitting on the ground next to one of those old space heaters in the dead of winter, and it creeps right into his bones. God says, Dean, I think you’re quite right about that, and I admire and appreciate your honesty, Now that I have found and spoken to you and see that it is possible, I would quite like to do the same for your brother, and I think that after this meeting I will try.

“Is that you?” Dean says, the warmth flooding through his body, unfurling like a lily, making his throat tight. Is what me, God says, and Dean replies, “The —” and gesturing to the side of his body, “There’s a warmth, all through me.”

Oh, God hums, sounding happily surprised, It very well could be, as I said, I’m Dreaming more often than not, but I’m still in everything everywhere, and most things I do are subconscious, be it a perfectly timed break in the rain or a good cup of coffee or the feeling you get overlooking the ocean or the way Castiel knows exactly when you need a careful hand just so at the place where your neck meets your shoulders, So that feeling very well could be me, or it could just be you, Dean, but ultimately the outcome is the same.

Dean Winchester, retired, sitting on a rock in the national park clutching the hand, still, of an ex-Angel, looking out over the water and seeing all the different greens in the trees, says, softly, “Fuck. You really are God, aren’t you?”

Wind chimes all around them, Well, that’s one name, and as I said before, I don’t mind what people call Me, an official title, or Love, or A Good Feeling, or There’s Something About Her and I Can’t Put My Finger On It But It Completes Me, or Earth, Every name I’ve ever been given makes me happy, after all, is there any greater joy than being noticed by the person you love.

“No, there isn’t,” Castiel answers quietly, and he doesn’t look at Dean but he doesn’t need to, because Dean’s already blushing despite himself, and the heat on his cheeks both is and isn’t God. Their hands are sweaty from being held so tightly for so long, and it’s a little gross but the idea of pulling away doesn’t even occur to Dean, not even once.

“The people we lost,” he asks, mouth dry, a little reverent now, maybe, but still feeling entitled to demands. “Heaven is gone, isn’t it? So where are they?”

With me, but not in the way that you think, God says apologetically, Only in that I am everywhere in every time, and so they still live and I still touch their lives, kiss their heads whenever I can, as I try to do with everybody, But you are referring to after Death, which I cannot know any more than you do because I am also alive, here, with you, I am sorry if this is not a good answer.

Dean swallows, expecting his heart to crack, impossibly, again, but it doesn’t. The words taste sweet and unfamiliar when he says, “Actually, I think that’s the best answer you could have given me. Thanks, uh. Thanks, God.”

Again, it is all my pleasure, but I do believe I may have to stop speaking soon, I am quite tired.

“You’re leaving?” Castiel says, sounding unbelievably young, his voice rippling right through Dean’s bones, and a rush of wind, a hundred fingertips over their cheeks, the birdsong across the water, the sunlight dancing across the tiny waves.

Castiel, I am not leaving, of course not, I am simply sinking back into the soft lull of my Dreaming, and will become an unconscious rather than conscious presence, which is to say that I will of course still be here, not watching you or directing you or judging you, but rather Loving and Feeling, I suppose you could think of me as the Lover who, in their sleep, continues to sweep the pad of their thumb across their partner’s knuckles, not due to conscious decision, but rather because even in their Dreams they have a desire to take care of those they love in whatever small, sleepy way they can.

“Of course,” Cas says, his smile returning, as if surprised he could ever imagine anything otherwise. “Sweet dreams, then, I suppose, Lord.”

And God says, Thank you kindly, Castiel, and you as well, Dean, I will cherish the time we spent together, Oh, and please feel no pressure to make changes to your life following this meeting, I require no sudden increase of devotion or worship unless it is what you desire, after all, I loved you before this and I will continue to love you afterwards, Goodbye.

There is no great change. The Voice does not speak again, but Dean searches the horizon and finds the same trees, and that bird is still singing, and there is Cas’s hand, still in his, slick with sweat, and there is his gun on the rock. Dean picks it up and returns it to its place.

Cas lifts one shaking hand and wipes at his cheeks. The sounds of the world go on undisturbed around them, for a little bit, the wooden bend of the trees, the hushing lap of the water, the scuffle of insects and animals in the leaf litter, the crawl of the roots underground.

“Fuck,” Dean says again, and he shakes his head. “Fuck. God _damn_ ,” and then Cas laughs at him, says, wetly, “Dean, are you really going to say _that_ ,” and Dean makes an indignant noise, replies, “Dude said we should feel no pressure to make changes, I’ll curse as much as I want about it.” Cas releases his grip on Dean’s hands and lifts both arms to reach for him; Dean shoves the bag out of the way from where it is between them and shuffles over, wraps his own arms around Cas’s middle and hunches down so he can bury his face in his neck, in dark and warmth.

“Do you want to go home?” Cas asks. Dean thinks, tilts his head to the side to free his mouth and speak against Cas’ neck.

“Yeah,” he says, “But not yet. Five more minutes.”

“Okay,” Cas agrees. Later, they will walk back down the narrow path on shaky legs, fearing that something will change the further they get from the lake, but nothing does. They will climb in the car, Dean driving as usual, back down the old road and turn up the driveway to their little cabin five minutes out of town. Cas will reach for the bag where it’s been thrown in the backseat, but Dean will click his tongue and say, “Nope, not happening,” and make sure he carries it himself, even though it has nothing but mostly-empty water bottles and the foil from their sandwiches, and weighs next to nothing. And Dean will cook a big dinner while Cas finishes his book and criticises most sentences aloud to Dean, who will laugh every time at the brutality of his best friend’s words, as if he’ll never fail to be surprised that Cas contains something other than kindness and affection, and after dinner Dean will walk around the garden while Cas washes up, toying with his phone before deciding, _nah, I’ll let Sammy find out for himself_ , and he will text his brother about something unrelated. They will sleep, and in that sleep will turn towards each other and curl, like commas, their fingertips brushing, saying, without even meaning to, _yes, here I am, sweet dreams_.

They will, of course. But for now, Dean and Cas sit on the rock above the lake, the sun high in the sky, and the wind ruffles their hair as it dances past.


End file.
